


Because of You

by TheObsessedAuthor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural-Verse
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Character Death, Dark, Suicide, i've never written anything this dark I apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheObsessedAuthor/pseuds/TheObsessedAuthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock died, John became a hunter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because of You

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this gif (and the ensuing conversation) on Tumblr: http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/65340196661/cumbereds-rainbowsfireworks

"John... John, it's  _me."_

 _  
_"How do I know? How can I tell, Sherlock? After what I've seen?"

_It was supposed to be a normal hunt- as normal as demonic possessions ever got, anyway. John had gotten the call from one of his spies that morning; apparently Sherlock's homeless network saw a lot more than just suspicious-looking humans. A young woman, wearing a green leather jacket, holding a white handbag. Brown hair, brown skin, black eyes. Demon._

"Please, John. I wanted to come back, it wasn't _safe-_ "

"You're not Sherlock." Sherlock would never beg.

_It had been frighteningly easy to dispatch the demon- John no longer felt the shudder of guilt drip down his spine as he stabbed an innocent woman through her chest. He had long since left behind any misgivings he might've had about killing humans. Being in a war will do that to you. This was a different kind of war, though- cleaner, somehow. Not human against human, no; now it was human against demon, demons that might wear human faces but were evil nonetheless._

_  
_"I _am_  Sherlock, I'm human, John, please-"

"Shut up."

_He'd buried her in the usual spot. It wasn't hard, anymore, to dig the grave, to heave the lifeless body into the hole. To pour the gasoline over her still form. To drop the lit matchbook and see the flames consume her dead flesh. To hear the curious shuffling sound of dirt falling onto the decimated corpse. To hide any evidence that the site had been disturbed in the last ten years._

_  
_"I know what you've been through. And I'm _sorry_ , John, I'm so sorry, but you have to _believe_ me-"

"You know what? I don't. I really, really don't."

 _He'd been halfway home when he'd sensed it- someone was behind him. Three years of being alone had sharpened his senses. It was someone human- or_ wearing _a human, at least. He turned sharply, planted his feet, drew his gun, prepared to blast whatever-it-was full of rock-salt bullets-_

_"John?"_

***

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Sherlock, never one for fantasies, had nevertheless imagined this scene in his head thousands of times since he'd left. John might be violent- that was to be expected, after what Sherlock had done. John might take a few days to adjust to him being back. It didn't matter- he'd be back, John would come around, and then they would be together again. Solving crimes. Holmes and Watson, Watson and Holmes.

But something had changed.

_His hair's gotten longer. Unkempt. Leather jacket- worn, burned, seen a lot of action. He's been outside a lot. Constantly moving. Hasn't eaten in... thirty-eight hours. Hasn't slept in forty-three. Eyes are darker. He's just gotten over a cold. Shoes are scuffed, old, he can't be bothered to buy new ones. Doesn't have the money anyhow. Armed. He's just buried something- dirt under his fingernails and on his forehead from when he wiped away sweat. Traces of perfume, plus creases on his coat where there wouldn't be from just wearing it- he's carried a woman's body lately. Buried a woman's body- after killing her, with said weapon. On the run... or on a chase?_

_  
_He stepped out onto the road, behind him, just as John whirled around, his gun in his hand. Sherlock stopped, shock widening his eyes for a moment, before he regained his composure. _John won't shoot me._ "John... John, it's _me_."  _He's disbelieving. Understandable._

"How do I know? How can I tell, Sherlock? After what I've seen?"  _He's slightly hysterical. Of course, he thought I was dead, it makes sense, it wasn't supposed to be like this-_

 _Wait._ He was missing something, something crucial. What wasn't he seeing?

_Perfume, yes, mixed with what? Sulfur. Sulfur plus John killing an innocent woman. NOT innocent, John would never do that, he was a doctor, even if he had 'bad days.' So, something else. Not innocent- no, even then he wouldn't kill her, he'd arrest her, detain her. So, not human, not human plus sulfur plus a gun that doesn't appear to have regular bullets plus burn marks on the jacket equals-_

_Demon._

_He thinks I'm a demon._

_I've got to do something, before he does something rash._ "Please, John. I wanted to come back, it wasn't  _safe-_ "

"You're not Sherlock."  _Eyes tightening, filling with- anger? No. Exhaustion? Maybe._

_Resolve._

_Oh, no._ "I  _am_  Sherlock, I'm human, John, please-" 

"Shut up." _Firm grip on the gun. Ragged hair, worn clothes, on the run, even better with a weapon than before, and he was already a crack shot. He's been doing this for a few years, at least. Hunting demons._

"I know what you've been through. And I'm  _sorry_ , John, I'm so sorry, but you have to _believe_  me-" 

"You know what? I don't. I really, really don't."  _He's going to shoot me._ "Sherlock has been dead for three years. Dead things do not come back, no matter how much you want them to. They. Stay. Dead."  _He's actually going to kill me._ "And even if you WERE Sherlock- and you're not, you're a ghost or a demon or a ghoul- then what? You think you can just  _come back?_

 _Breathing rapidly. Fingers squeezing the trigger, not pulling it yet._ "John, listen to me-"

"NO!"  _Shaking his head. Calming himself. He'll get a clearer shot, that way._ "No, Sher- no. No, I won't listen to you, because even if you were  _real_ , I wouldn't want you back. You know, this is your fault? All of this. Me. What I've become, Sherlock! You leaving, this is the consequence! _I am_ the consequence! This was  _you!"_

"No." _He's getting unstable, I need to ground him again._  "John, what about Mary?"

"Mary." _Hollow voice. Sad. Angry._ "You know about Mary. So you were watching me, is that it? You couldn't drop a note?"  _Shaking his head again._ "You know what, she's gone. It doesn't even matter. Nothing matters, because  _you are not Sherlock Holmes."_

 _Arm steady. Eyes trained on me._ For the first time in his life, Sherlock tried to deny his own observations.  _He can't shoot me, he won't kill me, that's not who he is-_

 _  
_He was still reasoning with himself when the bullets tore through his chest.

***

John watched the Sherlock look-alike stumble, a (no doubt well-rehearsed) look of shock and betrayal on its face. Not a ghost, then, or a ghoul. A demon, it had to be. It was very good- it had had him wondering for a second, if maybe-

No. Sherlock was dead. No matter how much John wished he wasn't. The universe did not care about John Watson.

He strode towards the body, still convulsing slightly on the ground. It still wasn't dead, the damned thing. He set his foot on its neck, prepared to twist-

_Please, John._

_  
_John paused, a flicker of doubt sparking in his mind. " _Christo_ ," he muttered, just to make sure.

Sherlock's eyes remained the icy shade they had always been.

"No. No, no, oh God, please no." John's knees gave out, and he collapsed, pressing his hands uselessly over the bullet wounds. _He'd always been such a good shot_. " _Christo_ , _Christo_ , oh God, _Christo_ , please, be a demon or don't be dead, just for me, just, please-"

Sherlock's face held no emotion as the life left his eyes.

His ice-blue eyes.

_It's my fault._

John stood slowly, letting Sherlock's body slump again onto the abandoned gravel road. His blood seeped out of the gaping holes, staining the pebbles a garish scarlet.

_This happened because of me._

He considered the gun in his hands.

_Sherlock was the consequence._

John reloaded the gun carefully, sliding the bullet- one bullet- into the chamber and cocking it. A small part of his mind protested, the tiny scrap of self-preservation he had that had somehow survived the last three years- it had Sherlock's voice. _Th_ _is isn't the way. Don't do this. Can't you see this is worse?_

_How do I know? How can I tell, Sherlock? After what I've seen?_

A shot rang out through the empty forest.

The universe did not care about John Watson.


End file.
